Traumatizing Moments From My Present, Volume Four: The Devil’s Drink

If anyone is wondering why I’m campaigning hard to get Prohibition re-installed, it’s because of what happened to me two weeks ago.

I threw a little party in my spacious abode for my main gypsy betch Chelsea. It was great. It enabled me to separate my real friends from the POSERS because my real friends brought gin (elixir of life/ primary inspirational force behind Tender is the Night) and my fake friends brought disgusting beer.

Everything was fine, until I turned to the nearest dashing young man, a Burberry model, and asked (commanded?) him to make me a gin and tonic.

He agreed.

Everything was still great.


Burberry model returned, holding one of my delicate parfait glasses (thanks for the Christmas gift, Mom) filled to the brim with a golden liquid. I thought to myself, “Wow, I can smell it from across the room—he must’ve made it pretty strong.” But I didn’t protest. I took the drink.

I sipped.

MY LIFE FLASHED BEFORE MY EYES as something the equivalent of Drano scalded its way down my throat, tearing at my stomach lining and spiraling through my spinal fluids until I could only gasp through my charred, flapping jaw, “What was that?”

Burberry model only grinned.

Although my very lungs were collapsing, I whispered, “Is this a gin and tonic?”

“No,” said Burberry. “It’s a gin and tequila.”

The moral of the story is never, never accept drinks from Burberry models who have been left alone with the red wine. It’s simply not worth the ensuing supraglottic laryngectomy you’ll be forced to undergo due to the total annihilation of your mouth and throat.



You are truly great.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s